


Call it Intuition

by mutemail



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, M/M, Soulmates, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutemail/pseuds/mutemail
Summary: Since the dawn of time everyone has been assigned a spirit animal that is a representation of their soulmate(s). Jaskier with his overprotective white wolf, and Geralt with his song-happy lark, all make for one messy menagerie. Hurt/comfort & follows the show timeline for the MOST part with some minor tweaking and whatnot to fit the prompt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 559





	Call it Intuition

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to craftgamerzz on Tumblr for giving me permission to write something based on their lovely art (which you can see [HERE](https://craftgamerzz.tumblr.com/post/190822600376/ya-alls-its-geraskierweek-day-1-soulmates)). I just loved it so much, I had to take it and run with it. This is my first work for the fandom so be gentle with me! And, as always, I hope you enjoy.

The year is 1229 and the crowd is hushed, barely-whispering among themselves in anticipation of the event. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, has just been born and his family and friends are eagerly awaiting the man, or rather the creature, of the hour: his spirit companion. The following couple of hours after a birth is always filled with the expectation of a second arrival into the world. Spirit companions are representations of the infant’s future soulmate, and typically come in ones though are not unheard of to be in pairs or even trios, and are quite the talk of the town when a baby comes along.

The guests are currently piled in the main hall between the birthing room and the open door leading back into the forest. Young Julian’s closest family resides in the birthing room to tend to the mother while everyone else trembles with anticipation outside.

Finally, some odd hours into life, a small white wolf wobbles through the open door. Its serious yellow eyes glance over the humans carelessly as it makes its way down the stream of red carpet to the birthing room. It looks only a couple hours old itself yet carries an air of wisdom and superiority. The wolf enters the room focused completely on the quiet baby in a mother’s arms. She immediately moves the infant to the bassinet beside her bed to encourage the creature closer, the hint of a smile on her face.

The wolf, head low and sniffing, comes around before hopping up into the bassinet. Infant Julian croons while making fists with his tiny hands. The wolf circles once, twice, then settles on the far end of the bed away from the mother, his chin resting lightly over the baby’s chest to keep pace of his breaths. The spirit companion has arrived.

Hundreds of miles away, amidst the carnage of a successful fight, Geralt of Rivia hears a shrill tweet by his ear and feels a small weight upon his head. He backtracks before swiping up at it and the bird spins around in the air before landing on the top of his knuckles, head tilted. It’s a little bird of blue and white with a strip of black around the middle, its eyes purely curious.

The witcher huffs and drops his hand to encourage the thing off. He gathers his weapon where it lay buried in a man’s chest then hops up onto his first horse, Roach, before riding off. To his annoyance, the bird has made itself his unwilling company and nestles itself in Roach’s mane with another song of noise. Geralt frowns at it but doesn’t bother otherwise, hoping the little thing will leave him soon enough.

Years pass by in an uninteresting blur. The wolf, now dubbed Snowball, becomes the protective force constantly hovering at Julian’s side as he ages. No matter where he travelled the white wolf was never far behind, always with hunched shoulders and an annoyed, yet inexplicably fond, huff. 

Julian, now called Jaskier, works his way cross-country with his beloved lute on his back and a hum of a new song. He finds himself at a tavern filled to the brim with townspeople and adventurers. Seeing the opportunity, he plays a couple songs before finding himself booed off the stage and Snowball finds a hearty snack in the food that they’re pelted with. Suddenly Snowball raises his head towards the back corner of the room and dives off in that direction. Jaskier gasps and makes chase, nervously apologizing to people that he bumps into on the way.

Snowball skirts under a table wherein sits a witcher, swords beside him and a lark on his shoulder, and winds himself between the man's legs happily. The witcher shifts his legs and gives a curious look to the animal when the assumed owner stumbles forth looking embarrassed.

“Snowball! You can’t run off like that, get back here this _instant_.” Geralt watches the bard argue with the wolf still between his legs and smirks at the deep yaps it offers in response.

Jaskier leans back with a huff, hands on his hips and eyes trained on the wolf’s wagging tail. He beckons again to him with an air of annoyance. The wolf remains chipper, tail moving even faster if anything, and simply tilts its snout up to the witcher. Jaskier rolls his eyes and follows the wolf’s gaze.

White hair, golden eyes, a scowl that makes Jaskier have the distinct feeling that this particular face isn’t complete without it. The lark that has landed on his shoulder gives a smug-sounding trill. Jaskier glances at it without much care, growing exasperated with his own animal companion.

“Oh my gods, Snowball, _please_ leave this man alone.”

The witcher seems less than amused, swallowing his next bit of drink before allowing his attention to shift to the wolf wound between his legs. Snowball’s tail thumps even harder. If anything, the wolf seems smug to be so defiantly close to the witcher. Jaskier gives up and sits across the table from the man with an almost-apologetic-but-not-quite expression. The lark moves itself atop the man’s head and watches Geralt happily.

“Sorry to impose, he won’t move now that I want him to, that’s how he is. Anyway, I’m Jaskier. Maybe you heard me performing earlier? Go ahead-- I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. Three words or less?”

Years have passed them by, both none the wiser that the close nature of their spirit companions meant something _more_ than kindness. Jaskier and Geralt’s routes have often taken them along different paths though they inevitably cross yet again down the line. For better, for worse.

“I’ll see you around, Geralt.” This time, his heart has been crushed. Snowball has taken a protective stance between Jaskier’s legs, yellowed eyes glowering at the witcher that started it all. The wolf has its teeth bared, the lark has fallen silent, and the two men can barely look each other in the face for the awkwardness of it all. Jaskier stumbles over the wolf as he turns to leave, hurrying away with his head hung low and eyes batting back tears. Finally, the wolf leaves with him, one final glance over its shoulder to the melancholic songbird.

_May we meet again._

When the pair fall out of sight the lark snaps it beak over a couple strands of Geralt’s hair and yanks it firmly, ripping out the pieces and fluttering into the air to evade the swat of his hand. The witcher curses at the bird where it hovers just out of reach.

Life continues on like normal for him without Jaskier at his side. He’s never been a constant, not that Geralt would have wanted him to be anyhow, what with his constant annoyances, and he most certainly isn’t missed now. Geralt continues hunting without having to think twice about needing to protect anyone else but himself.

The towns are rough, as usual. Glares follow him whenever he turns a corner and innkeepers are ever hesitant to rent him rooms even after he solves their infestations. It’s weeks afterwards that the mystery hole in his chest in the wake of Jaskier’s departure finds itself still unfilled and, somehow, deepening. Geralt finds it more and more difficult to brush off the ache of it and the longing that fills him whenever he looks at the lark. Somehow, its presence begins to hurt. He finds himself awakening in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, eyes misty, and heart pounding away angrily.

The witcher does what he does best and ignores the feeling as much as possible, not wanting to call attention to something that can’t be explained or fixed simply. He’s walking through a town he’d visited years back and spots a bakery of sorts. The windows are filled with steaming pastries, pies, and breads of various flavors. His first instinct is to turn to his right where Jaskier would be in order to mention the food, only to be met with an empty space.

Nothing. Nothing is what greets him. Confusion furrows his brows and Geralt has to take a second to realize what has just happened before he can understand. Jaskier hasn’t been with him for some time now and yet he went to speak to him as if he had been. What does that mean?

The lark with its impeccable timing yanks a chunk of his hair, earning itself a hiss and swat. Geralt tucks the hair back behind his ear with a scowl. Surely, all of this meant something. The emptiness in his chest, the angry bird annoyance, habitually turning to speak to someone not even present. Realization hits him hard.

The bird. His eyes search the air for it and locate the lark perched upon the bakery sign, singing for all to hear. That bird has been with him for _decades_ now and he’d never given it a thought. Geralt doesn’t consider himself an expert but finds its abnormal lifespan something of concern. The sing-song of its tweets, its optimistic resilience, the way it gets on every last nerve and keeps on coming. And what of that white wolf with Jaskier, the yellow eyes that mirror his own both in color and intensity? The witcher stands stock still.

He’s sent away his soul-mate.

The thought crushes the air from his lungs. All his life he’s believed codependence to be a burden, but surely this was meant to be. Their paths continued to intertwine time and time again without either of them realizing the implications. Or had Jaskier known and not said for fear of rejection? It would be a valid fear, until this point Geralt had considered himself a secluded type of person unbefitting of a soul-mate. Destiny could be a twisted bitch.

All he could hope was that their paths could interlock one last time.

  
  
  


In the following weeks, Jaskier’s attitude grew dimmer and dimmer. No longer did his lute seem to carry a proper tune; not that he would want to look at it anyhow. It’d been a gift from the elves and that train of thought inevitably brought him back to missing Geralt. His soul-mate. Yes, he’d known, and no, he hadn’t told anyone. Geralt wasn’t the type to stop and take root. It would have been selfish to ask that of him anyhow. Seeing as how their last meeting went, Jaskier had even begun to doubt that they _were_ soul-mates. Did everyone get those rough patches? The arguments and hidden tears?

He’d always had this vision in his mind that meeting his soul-mate would be some life-changing event; that everything would feel _warm_ and _right_ and _happy_ but instead he felt dejected, incomplete, constantly vying for attention that wouldn’t come naturally. It was like he was constantly begging for Geralt to care. To give him scraps of affection, even when he was mad at least it was _something_ , but his luck had run dry and Geralt grew tired of him. Sick of him. Couldn’t even look at him that day.

Jaskier’s eyes bore into the base of the fire where he’d set up camp for the night. Without his good spirits he’d lost motivation to play and, thus, was not bringing in any coin for himself from playing in taverns. He’d spent the last of his coin on a bed-roll and a few things for dinner. At least Snowball was helping and would bring little creatures back for Jaskier to cook.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, the white wolf emerges with a plump rabbit in his maw. Jaskier takes it from him and sets it down without looking away from the fire. Snowball makes a whining sound. Noses his cheek. Jaskier gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know, buddy, I miss him too. Or are you just comforting me? You probably didn’t care for him really.” He scratches behind the wolf’s ears and even though he doesn’t respond, he knows that Snowball appreciates the gesture by the way his ears flatten to his skull. Jaskier presses his cheek to a furry shoulder with a sigh.

“I just wish I could take it all back.”

  
  
  


It’s a warm summer evening. The market is alive with chatter and people milling about, striking deals, and generally socializing. Jaskier mulls over the wares with an appraising eye, occasionally picking up a vegetable to spin it around only to drop it back into place. Snowball stands idly beside him without a single flick of his gaze towards another person. The bard picks up a couple fruits, failing to notice how his companion’s ears pick up and he turns to the left towards the innermost area of the market. Suddenly there is a bark then a cloud of dust upon the creature’s departure. Jaskier gasps, dropping the fruits haphazardly into place, and chases after the wolf.

He stammers out quick apologies to anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his way as he fights through the crowd in a mad dash towards the retreating flashes of white between the market-goer’s legs. Across the market, perched on the shoulder of a white-haired witcher, a little songbird turns itself towards the crowd. It announces its flight with a shriek and shoots off, but not before snagging a bit of Geralt’s hair in its beak to properly assure his attention.

“Damned bird!” Geralt curses, running his fingers through his now ruffled hair, and twists to watch where the lark is flying off to. He won’t let the only piece he has left of Jaskier just _up_ and _leave_ him. The vendor he had been talking to can only watch open-mouthed as Geralt storms off after the bird, curses filling his wake.

People move out of the way to allow the storming figure through, perplexed as to what was taking place. Geralt’s heart thumps a little harder in his chest and his eyes stay locked on the little bird. He won’t allow himself to lose sight of it. He can’t. It’s simply unfathomable.

Finally the crowd parts and the lark dives down, landing itself on top of a familiar wolf’s head. Geralt stops in the middle of the square, catching his breath, and watches as Jaskier bursts forth from the opposite side.

“Snowball! There you are, you brazen hussy. Can’t believed you’d run off like that-- what has gotten into you?” Jaskier advances on the animal with an annoyed huff, then notices the lark perched among the white fur. He stops. Geralt watches as the bard raises his head and meets his eyes. Time around them slows, the voices muted, lights suspending a second longer in the space between them, before everything returns to normal once again. Jaskier’s face curves into a frown and he shoos his hands at the little lark before putting an arm around Snowball in an attempt to strong-arm him out of the square. The lark flutters in the air around the bard’s head with desperate sing-song tweets.

Geralt takes a step forward. There are so many words filling his mind and overriding everything else, every bit of common sense in him. Where is there to start? An _I’m sorry_? Somehow the words don’t seem enough. Nothing would be enough. How could he possibly dig himself out of this hole?

Snowball becomes a dead-weight in Jaskier’s arm, making them both tumble down onto the cobbled ground as the bard makes a noise of protest. Jaskier pops back up with both hands on his hips. The nostalgia of their first meeting makes Geralt’s heart pang again.

“I will leave you. Honestly, running out to meet with a bird. Thought you’d know better than that.” Jaskier’s finger wags at the wolf in faux-seriousness.

“Jaskier,” the witcher rasps. It feels as though his voice is fading. Did he even make a sound? Must have, Jaskier has picked up his head and finally turned his attention to the person he’d been avoiding.

“Geralt.” His tone is forcibly uncaring but his eyes appear a bit damp. Geralt closes the distance between them, only separated by the lazing wolf and his chattering avian companion. Geralt runs a hand over his face.

“I don’t know where to begin apologizing to you, really, but I know I need to. I was severely out of line before. I let my anger get the best of me.” The tension in Jaskier’s body begins to fade out but he maintains his nonchalant stance. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me when others wouldn’t give me an opportunity to prove my abilities.”

The bard shifts his weight to the other foot with fingers pushing through his hair to brush his bangs out of his face. He takes a breath.

“Geralt--.”

“No, wait, not done.” The witcher steps forward. “And I don’t mean to cut you off. What you have to say is important but I need to finish first.”

Jaskier nods.

“You’ve never been the problem. You’ve never been the one on the other side creating the problems. You’ve been by my side sticking through them with me and I never appreciated that for what it was. I could give you excuses about how I’m not used to being treated kindly or how I don’t believe that people do things genuinely and without looking for favors but I won’t waste your time with any of them. The bottom line is I was cruel, I sent you away when all you ever did was help, and I’m incredibly sorry for doing so. I miss you, Jaskier.”

For the first time in his life, Jaskier was struck utterly and completely _speechless_. The misty eyed look is in full swing by now, his chin trembling in that gut-wrenching way that makes Geralt want to hold him, protect him, keep him away from all the awful things in this world that could ever hurt him. But those sweet lips have curled themselves into a grin rather than a frown.

“You’re such an arse,” he starts with a step forward to embrace the witcher, “but you’re _my_ arse.”

Jaskier tightens his arms around Geralt’s middle and presses a warming cheek to his chest, heart stirring when a tight hold comes around his shoulders in return. Around them the world continues on carelessly, the breeze rustling leaves, the evening sun dipping beyond the horizon, and a lark settles itself upon a wolves head with a smug tweet.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments fuel my writing!


End file.
